An older man, a grizzly coot dressed in a homespun vest and a coarse muslin shirt, leaned on his musket as if it were a walking stick. He surveyed the scene before them through narrow, squinted eyes. “They’re just as nervous about this as we are,” he stated bluntly. “See,” he indicated with a nod toward the far end of the green, “how their officers are circling and wandering about.”

“Well,” a gruff voice replied, “their officers may be a bit uneasy, but watch out for their lads. Have you taken note how they eye us with the contempt of Boston thugs. Mark my words, they’re spoiling for a fight, lads.”

While the gruff voiced militiaman’s statement may not have held true for all of the King’s men, it certainly summed up Private Robert Johnston’s attitude. Like so many of his companions, he was growing impatient with his own skittish officers. Worked up into a near frenzy by the tensions that had been building up, Johnston stepped out of ranks and began shouting oaths for all he was worth. Like many of his mates he ignored his officer’s threats to cease yelling and stand to attention. He was tired of standing in ranks like a great bloody statue, forced to endure everything from taunts to stones thrown at them by damned colonists like those across the way without being allowed to respond. “Look at ’em,” Johnston hissed as he thrust his fist out toward the line of militia, some sixty yards away. “They stand there, armed to the teeth, in clear violation of the King’s law, and dare us when they know there isn’t an officer in our regiment with the backbone to give the order.” Glancing at a young subaltern doing everything he could to shove the men of 4th Regiment of Foot back in line, Johnston grunted. “I don’t know who disgusts me more, our own officers who shy away from a real brawl like a spring virgin or those damned hooligans who call themselves patriots.”

Johnston’s companion, a pale, thin fellow named Martin who was also enflamed by the moment, didn’t respond to his comrade’s comments. Instead, he contented himself with fingering the musket held close to his side as he eyed the gaggle of militiamen gathered opposite them. All that stood between these lines were a handful of mounted British officers who rode between the two lines of armed men in an effort to defuse the situation. Finally, Martin spoke as he eyed a particularly nervous looking colonist who appeared to be backing away from the fray. “One good volley,” he finally muttered menacingly. “Let us hit with one good volley and we’ll end it right here.”

With a grunt, Johnston nodded his agreement. “Aye, that we would. Let ’em see a bit of their own blood spilled. Perhaps that’ll make ’em a bit more mindful of the King’s law.”

“If not the King’s law,” Martin snapped, “at least we would teach the bastards a bit of respect for his troops.”